Final Edit
by Random Guise
Summary: A writer loves to tell a story, but what if he's not very good at it? Told in the style of the original TV show. Contrary to Mr. Shumoch, I've still got a few tales to share even if to just a small corner of an ignored room in a vacant house of an abandoned town on a backwater world. Complete.


_You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's the signpost up ahead - your next stop, the Twilight Zone!_

 _Submitted for your approval: one Allan Shumoch, a struggling writer looking for that one big idea that will become his first best seller. What Mr. Shumoch doesn't realize is that ideas alone don't sell books..._

Final Edit

Allan Shumoch scanned the classified ads on his phone. He needed to write a new story for his fanfiction account and was looking for inspiration. When all else failed in the past he would visit various garage, yard and rummage sales looking for an odd item that would trigger a new character or story. It had worked before and he was hoping it would work again.

Going down the listings, he came across an estate sale being held at a warehouse nearby. It was close by, and was going to open in an hour. He decided to go.

An hour later Allan arrived at the warehouse. Signs nearby pointed the way, advertising "Estate Sale Today" in bold letters. Several people outside were entering the building, and he joined them as they filtered through the entrance. Just inside the doorway was a table with flyers about the sale. Allan picked one up and stepped to the side to read.

The sale was for the estate of Samuel Hogue; Allan recognized the name as a writer who had died recently. He was quite popular in the last two years and had written several best sellers; Allan even owned one he had bought at a yard sale which he found to be one of the best reads he'd come across that year. The flyer went on to mention some of the larger items, as well as the usual terms for sale, commissions and as-is conditions of the items. He got into line and started shuffling around the various tables looking at items that the former Mr. Hogue had accumulated in his life.

He found two items that were of interest. One was a all-in-one word processor that was designed for authors; it had come out as a dedicated machine and ran no other software and had no internet connections. Understandably few had used one, and the company that manufactured the PROse XE was long bankrupt and gone.

The second item was a dagger several inches in length. It was made of an odd colored metal and had an inscription on the blade of an unknown language. As Allan shifted his viewing angle, the color on the blade seemed to change and he could also see a large flaw in the cutting edge, as if someone had struck the knife against stone or other metal. The handle seemed to be made from a material that was either bone or ivory, carved into an intricate design. The price on the knife was fairly inexpensive, probably due to the damaged edge. He wondered how the damage could have occurred and an idea formed. He picked up the knife and moved on.

Everything else seemed rather ordinary, or in some cases too expensive. He was making his way to the cashier and passed the word processor again. Because of its limited use it was being sold for almost nothing; Allan decided to buy it just because it might have been used to write the book of the author's he had at home. He paid for his items and went back home.

He sat and studied the knife while working out a story in his head. Yes, it just might be enough for a story. He got onto his computer and started typing away. A few of his stories had gotten favorable reviews on the site, but he always hoped that somehow someone important would see his work and offer a publishing deal. It was a slim chance, but a person could dream.

He wrote and edited his story "Cold Sahara" over the next few days until it was complete. He liked the movie it was based on, and the people in the story pretty much stayed in character. He saved off his story, made a backup copy to his thumb drive, uploaded and published it before going to bed.

The next morning he checked his account. Someone had written a review that, while not actually praising was generally encouraging but made note of a glaring error. It was obvious now, but in his haste he had somehow omitted a section. "Probably published the wrong save" he thought to himself. He pulled up his computer's word processor only to find that it had become corrupted during an upgrade during the night. Now turning on the program would only make his computer freeze; all the other programs seemed to be working fine.

He certainly didn't want to use the online Doc Manager to recreate the missing section unless he had to; it was a fairly lengthy segment that tied two crucial parts of the story together. With a thought he tried hooking up the word processing machine he had purchased several days before, hoping that at least he could retrieve the save from his thumb drive. He powered up the machine and watched as the screen lit, which was followed by a standard word processing screen after the program had fully initialized. He found the import function, inserted his drive and pulled up the file. There was his story, still missing the section. "Must have accidentally wiped that section with a cut-and-paste" he thought; he had done something on a smaller scale before. Since he already had it running, he sat down and rewrote the section as best he could remember it and saved it off to the thumb drive to replace the defective story on the site.

As he was about to shut the machine down he took one last look around the menus. The commands were pretty basic, much like what you'd expect on any generic word processor. There was one button that he hadn't seen before; it was labeled 'Polish It Up'. He clicked on it and a popup greeted him:

 **6 polishes left; do you wish to continue?**

Out of curiosity he clicked the 'yes' option. His cursor began flying around the screen as words were changed, sentences were deleted and whole paragraphs were moved on their own. The changes became a blur as the editing became faster, until suddenly they stopped and the computer dinged. A brief message popped up saying the process was completed and 5 polishes remained, then disappeared again.

He looked over the edited document. It was good. It was more than good, it was great; in a completely different league from his own writing. The basic elements of his story was there and the title had been altered, but it was like comparing a kazoo to a full orchestra. He saved his story and eagerly uploaded and published the replacement file. Within an hour he was receiving rave reviews for his story. In 3 hours he had a publishing offer.

...

Allan had a problem.

His story "Snow Drifts in the Sahara" was picked up and published to become a best seller. During that time he enjoyed all the accolades and perks of being a best selling author. But as with all great novels, there came a time when even his was banished to discount racks and yard sales. He tried writing several different stories on his brand-new computer he purchased at a local store, but they all paled in comparison to "Snow"; so much so that he couldn't bring himself to submit them to his agent for consideration. In desperation he took one of the stories and imported it into the PROse machine. He clicked the 'Polish It Up' button and was shown the:

 **5 polishes left; do you wish to continue?**

The screen blurred again as the story was edited at breakneck speed like before. After the message about 4 polishes left, he read the finished document and found once again that it edited his story far better than he could ever have written. He happily submitted his manuscript and was rewarded months later with his second best seller.

In the literary world one best seller qualifies you as a one-hit wonder. Two on the other hand immediately validates you as a bona fide author worthy of praise and admiration. Allan bought a house and new car, and enjoyed depositing the advance from his publisher for his next book that was sure to be a hit.

And the next book was a hit too. All it took was to import one of his substandard stores, and

 **4 polishes left; do you wish to continue?**

and minutes later he had his next phenomenal seller. But Allan soon began to wonder about his PROse. What of its previous owner? Allan remembered suddenly that he had been a successful author as well, so he looked up his biography.

Samuel Hogue had been a struggling author of fiction for many years; fan fiction and original material both failed to produce any interest. Then suddenly he burst upon the scene with a series of 5 consecutive best selling novels over the space of three years. The literary world was stunned when he was found dead at the keyboard, just having finished what became his sixth and final masterpiece.

Allan's blood ran cold. Six best sellers, then death. Was it a coincidence? He looked over the PROse very carefully. It looked ordinary. He took off the case and discovered that inside there was nothing. No cables, no drives, no memory cards, not even a power unit; it was basically a metal box with various cables attached to the outside. Somehow or other you plugged in everything on the outside and it worked like an ordinary word processor, with the exception of that special button on the menu. He looked again, and on the inside of the case was a sticker that read "Manufactured special for Deleana Compton". He put the case back on and went to his new computer. He knew the company that made the PROse was long gone, but he could try to look up something on Deleana Compton.

He wasn't surprised when he found that Deleana Compton was an author. A best selling author. With 6 best selling books to her credit, the last of which was published posthumously after her unexpected death at her keyboard at the age of 32.

He didn't have to read any more, the pattern was clear. Polish 6 stories, die. Obviously all he had to do was stop using the thing and he'd be okay.

The next month his agent called. "There's a big movie being set up, and they need a story to base the script on. You'd get to rub shoulders with the Hollywood crowd and make decent money with screen credit and everything. Say yes Allan, you don't get chances like this often."

 **3 polishes left; do you wish to continue?**

"Allan baby, Bill your agent here. They're talking sequel for your movie! It's great, and they've got directors fighting for the chance to do it. They say that actress from the first film really liked talking with you and wants your number."

 **2 polishes left; do you wish to continue?**

With the final blur and ding the message that Allan knew was coming appeared: 1 polish remaining. He submitted his manuscript and told his agent he was retiring immediately.

He dropped out of the public eye for some time after that. He traveled, tried a few hobbies, and even learned a new language. But he couldn't shake the dreaded fact that he was a writer, and not a very good one. Somehow, sometime, he would weaken and write that last novel that would end his life. He had tried to get rid of the PROse, but could never bring himself to do it. How long could he hold out?

He saw it on his desk. He could feel it packed in a box in his closet. It loomed over his career in his dreams. At last he feared his health would start to decline from the worry, so he sat down in front of the reassembled PROse. He started to type and continued until he was satisfied that he had all the elements he needed, then clicked the polish button.

 **1 polish left; do you wish to continue?**

He paused, took a deep breath, and clicked 'yes'.

The seconds ticked by as the screen did its usual blur. It was a shorter document than his others, and in no time the message appeared '0 polishes left'; it disappeared at about the same time he slumped dead in his chair.

...

From _Variety_ magazine:

Today a funeral was held for esteemed writer Allan Shumoch. Author of five best sellers of which 2 became major movies, his was a rising star that was extinguished all too soon. Mourned by writers and directors alike, friends say that his death will leave a void that will not soon be filled. Insiders say that he must have been suffering health issues; his last completed work was his own eulogy that was read at his funeral; a eulogy so moving the service had to be stopped twice for the intense weeping of the audience and reader. An estate sale for next Tuesday was announced with the proceeds benefiting the Young Writers Foundation... _  
_

 _And we say goodbye to Mr. Allan Shumoch, a man who went looking for a best seller and found it...in the Twilight Zone._

* * *

 **A/N: Do you ever think about what happens when you run out of good ideas? I do, and then this popped up in my head. It's not a genre I'm used to writing in though.**

 **To be authentic you should read this in black and white. Oh wait...**


End file.
